Kingpin's Foxglove (The Tarkhanov Empire Book 1)

by Bree Porter

  “We’ll see.” The arrogance in my tone made her tense. “Until then, enjoy your lab. My original offer remains; if you need anything, let me know.”

  Elena turned back to the setup. Very quietly, so quietly I almost thought I had imagined it, she murmured, “Thank you.”

  It seemed science was the way to Elena’s affections. I filed that thought away, said goodbye to the staff, and left the lab. Roman had already spoken to the guards on site and told them to keep an eye on her. Keep her safe and away from any knowledge that could compromise my operation.

  Roman was uncharacteristically silent as we walked through the orchard.

  “Say it, Roman,” I said over the crisp October breeze.

  “I have nothing to say.”

  I laughed. “I have known you since you were a young man. You have something to say.”

  Roman stepped up beside me, expression hard. “She distracts you, Kostya.”

  My smile froze on my face. “Is that so?”

  “You have never taken a woman to the lab, or on tours. And you have certainly never let one speak to you the way Elena does.”

  My byki came from a place of concern, of protection. But his worry was misplaced.

  “Elena is not another woman,” I told him coolly. “I know you are trying to look out for me, but this does not concern you.”

  “You don’t even really know her,” Roman insisted.

  “I know,” I said. “It’s fascinating.”

  Two days later, Tatiana felt strong enough to join us for breakfast.

  Dmitri hovered by her side as she slowly walked down the stairs—she’d warned him if he tried to help her, she would kick him in the balls—and made her way to the dining room. Like usual, Anton danced around her ankles, overjoyed his mother had left her room.

  Even Babushka decided to join us, leaping onto the top of the fridge and watching us all carefully.

  My family took their seats around the table, with Elena tucked in between Roksana and Danika. The women thought they were protecting Elena from the cruel attention of the men.

  Elena had relaxed only slightly in the past few days. She spent most of her day at the lab or with Tatiana, and most of her nights sorting through the library. Distant and reserved—still unsolved by Danika.

  “Uncle Kostya,” Anton called as he clambered onto a chair. He refused to sit in a highchair; Anton liked copying his father and uncles.

  “Anton,” I greeted.

  Anton stood up, steadying himself on the table for support. Artyom wrapped an arm around the back of his chair, ready to catch the toddler if he fell. Chances were, he would.

  “Sit on your bottom, Anton,” called Tatiana. Dmitri was filling her plate with bright fresh fruits, favoring strawberries, Tatiana’s favorite.

  Anton smiled cheekily at his mother but did not sit. Instead, he reached out and picked up a piece of melon, shoving it into his face. Juices ran down and stained his pajamas.

  “Anton, you’re making a mess,” I told him, passing him a napkin. He looked at me with wide eyes. “How about you do as your mother says and sit?”

  Immediately, Anton plopped onto his bottom, his little head peeking over the top of the table. He looked to me for praise.

  “Very good.”

  From the other end of the table, Tatiana sighed, but the smile on her face stopped us from believing she was actually mad.

  “I made your favorite, Tatiana,” Danika said, passing a plate of purple pancakes down the table. Dmitri took it from her. “They were having a sale on blueberries and Artyom and I went a little overboard.”

  “They bought 5 kilos worth of berries, Tat,” Roksana laughed.

  “It was a good deal,” Artyom interrupted. “We saved 45 dollars, dorogaya.”

  “Oh, they’re practically paying for themselves,” she teased.

  Artyom set his jaw but a slither of a smile peeked through.

  Roman laughed. “Where are you keeping them all?”

  “The outdoor fridge,” Artyom answered.

  “The booze fridge?” Roman demanded, nearly leaping over the table to swipe at my Obshchak. “You can’t put fruit in there—you’re taking space from things we actually need.”

  Danika butted in, “Ridiculous amounts of alcohol?”

  “Exactly.” Roman pointed a fork at her. “Including your own.”

  “I have a fridge in my room,” she said.

  His jaw dropped and he turned to me, “Dani’s allowed a fridge in her room but I’m not?”

  “Because of the incident, Roman,” I reminded him.

  “That was one time!”

  “Incident?” came Elena’s voice. She peered at both Roman and I with curiosity. “What happened?”

  Voices clashed together as everyone tried to tell the story, with Roman trying to change exaggerated facts at the top of his lungs. I held up a hand and they fell quiet, though there was still some mutterings and quiet snipes at Roman.

  “Roman,” I said to Elena, “decided he was sick of sharing food. He kept all his meals in his own personal fridge; however, he didn’t take very good care of it and it broke down. Roman didn’t figure out it had broken down until a few days later.”

  Elena cringed, imaging what happened. “I bet it stunk.”

  “Oh, God, did it stink,” Danika whined.

  “The entire house smelled like fish for a week,” Artyom agreed.

  Roman leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “If you greedy animals hadn’t kept stealing my food, I wouldn’t have kept it in my room.”

  I smiled and said to Elena, “This was before we had community meals. Now all food stays downstairs.”

  Anton blabbered something that sounded like Elena’s name. “Lena, Lena,” he cooed.

  She turned, and he stretched out a sticky hand, a blueberry in the center.

  “Oh,” she said as she took it from him, trying very hard not to get any mess on her hands, “thank you, Anton.”

  He grinned.

  Tatiana smiled, leaning forward. “Very good job sharing, Anton. You share better than your daddy.”

  Dmitri huffed but didn’t deny the accusation.

  Conversation resumed, though politics and mafia business were avoided. It was an unspoken rule at breakfast not to discuss our organization, and instead talk about domestic issues. I knew they preferred having a few minutes a day where they could pretend we were a normal family.

  Tatiana pulled Elena into a conversation. “That tonic you gave me has worked wonders,” she said softly. “I feel a lot better.”

  Elena didn’t preen at the praise. “I’m glad,” she said.

  I wasn’t aware Elena had administered Tatiana anything. From Dmitri’s cold expression, neither had he.

  “Elena,” I called.

  She turned to me, face tightening into annoyance. “Konstantin,” she returned.

  “I expect an update on your progress.”

  A muscle in Elena’s jaw twitched at the very thought of sharing her findings, but she inclined her head in surrender.

  9

  Elena Falcone

  It was Roman who found me in the library. “Boss wants to speak to you,” he said. “About Tatiana.”

  I sighed and stepped away from the bookshelf I had slowly been filling. All morning I had been practicing what I was going to say. Drafting and editing my speech like Konstantin was a judge I had to impress. In some ways he was—if he wasn’t impressed, my ass was being sent back to Chicago.

  Roman looked around the library in interest.

  “This is called a library,” I told him.

  He shot me a glare. “I know that.” His eyes scraped over the books, forehead puckering in frustration.

  I assessed him. “Do you know how to read?”

  “Of course, I can read,” Roman snarled. “Come on, let’s go. I don’t have all day.”

  I followed him out of the room and through the hallways. Instead of going to Konstantin’s study, Roman con
tinued to walk further into the house—into the areas I was not allowed to go unless invited.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To the dungeons.” He threw me a nasty smile. “So I can kill you in peace.”

  I shot him a venomous smile back. “You wouldn’t dare. Konstantin and Danika would be angry with you.”

  Roman’s eyes flared. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t I?”

  “You’re lucky you’re here to help Tatiana,” he muttered, “or else that mouth of yours would have killed you a long time ago.”

  I rolled my eyes. “My mouth and I both survived La Cosa Nostra and the Falcones. I’m sure I’d be fine.”

  Roman’s smile could have been a sneer, all teeth and nastiness. “If you really believe your dead little husband’s wrath is anything compared to Konstantin Tarkhanov’s, then you’re an idiot.”

  Pain erupted from my upper arm, awoken from memories and nostalgia.

  It’s not real, I told myself.

  Thaddeo’s angry eyes flashed through my mind’s eyes, his hand reaching forward, his furious voice resonating through my skull—

  “You good?” Roman suddenly asked.

  I yanked myself back to the present, sending the bodyguard a glare. “I just don’t have time for your bullshit. Are we almost there?”

  His amber-brown eyes searched my expression. I shoved down the memories, and the terror, and met his gaze dead on. Roman sent me a rough smirk but didn’t say anything else.

  We stopped in front of a pair of classical wooden double-doors. Soft voices came from inside.

  “Boss,” Roman pounded on the door. “I’ve got your little sciencer.”

  “Scientist, idiota,” I corrected. “The proper word is scientist.”

  “I don’t give a shit,” he snapped back.

  The door opened and an unfamiliar man stood before us. Older, with thick gray hair, and a measuring tape around his neck.

  “Morning, Boris,” Roman greeted.

  Boris narrowed his eyes at him. “Still dressing like an animal, I see.”

  I snorted.

  “Ladies shouldn’t snort,” Boris told me.

  This time, Roman snorted.

  “I can hear you all bickering,” came the laconic but firm voice of Konstantin from inside the room.

  Boris stepped to the side, gesturing me forward. When Roman tried to squeeze past, the tailor held up a hand, “I won’t have you breaking all my stuff.”

  “One time,” Roman bitched, but made no effort to push past Boris.

  I slipped past.

  My first impression was white and neat. Sharing the same classical Russian and French design as the rest of the house, before me was a large bedroom. Clean, tidy, with the messiest part of the room being the paper-covered desk.

  On the other end of the room, a huge canopy bed rested against the back wall, lit by the sun shining through the tulle ivory curtains. A suit was laid on the crisp blanket, a green tie bright against the white sheets.

  “Elena.”

  I turned my head, spotting Konstantin’s tall form immediately.

  My brain shuttered for a second, trying to grasp what my eyes were seeing.

  Konstantin stood before a mirror, dark slacks low on his hips and tie resting loosely over his shoulders. His blonde hair was oddly messy, a few long strands falling over his forehead, and he wasn’t wearing any shoes.

  But his lack of footwear wasn’t why I had paused.

  Konstantin wasn’t wearing a shirt. The expanse of his tattooed chest greeted me, the cords of his muscles hard and visible. Strong biceps, ripped abs, v dipping into his trousers.

  My mouth dried up.

  Inked over his skin was incredible art. Pictures that told stories and shared memories. I could see his Bratva tattoo, as well as images of birds and skulls and justice scales, joined by the Kremlin and lengthy Cyrillic quotes.

  Magnificent.

  I stepped closer, unable to resist my curiosity. My eyes latched onto his upper arm, where a list of names was visible. In small font, I could make out Natalia, Artyom, Roman, Olezka, Tatiana, Danika, Dmitri, Roksana and Anton. His family.

  Who the fuck was Natalia?

  “Elena?”

  Heat rose up my neck and cheeks, and I snapped my head up to meet his eyes. Konstantin’s entire face was lit in amusement.

  “You’re staring,” he drawled.

  I willed my cheeks to stop flaming and sent him a glare.

  Boris knelt down beside Konstantin, holding out his measuring tape, pins between his teeth. He said something I couldn’t make out.

  “I’m sure Elena is impressed by my new trousers,” observed Konstantin. “Do you want a pair, Elena?”

  I finally found my voice. “I prefer to wear my pants with shirts.”

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wished I could suck them back in.

  Really, brain? I demanded. Out of everything you could have said you focused onto the fact that he isn’t wearing a shirt?

  Konstantin grinned. “I hope I’m not bothering your delicate sensibilities.” His tone was polite but mocking, as Konstantin’s tone usually was when he spoke to me.

  “I’m not bothered.”

  Even Boris shot me a look at that statement.

  I straightened, holding back my shoulders. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes, about Tatiana.” Konstantin looked down to Boris. “Looser.” Then he turned back to me, his amusement vanishing. “What did you give her?”

  “A home remedy I made in the lab.”

  “That’s not an answer,” he told me.

  “It is safe for pregnant women,” I told him. “But it is not a cure.”

  Konstantin’s eyes hardened. “You haven’t cured her yet.”

  “Uh, the cure is in the making...” Hell, the diagnosis was still in the making. “The tonic I gave Tatiana was to slow down the...” Poison. “Illness. Like putting pressure to a wound.”

  His jaw tightened but he bowed his head. “I see.”

  Tatiana’s name on his arm seemed to glare at me.

  I opened my mouth to try and offer some reassurance, but no words came out. What could I say that would possibly make the situation better? Tatiana was very sick, and I had no idea what was wrong with her. I had no fucking clue how to help her.

  “The lab has benefitted you, then?”

  In more ways than one. “Yes. It’s been very helpful.”

  The hours I’d spent in the lab had made me the happiest I had been in a long time. Surrounded by science and familiarity, my brain had been stimulated and challenged, sorting through hypotheses and chemicals. It made me long for high school science or even my childhood garden, where I had made plenty of concoctions.

  I had even been sleeping slightly better the past two nights, my brain exhausted and easier to soothe into unconsciousness after a long day of research.

  I didn’t mention any of this to Konstantin. I doubted he cared anyway.

  Konstantin ran his hands through his hair—the first time I had ever seen him do something so casual—and nodded to me. “Have you spoken to your family yet?”

  I inwardly cringed. “No. Not yet.”

  “Make sure you do,” he said. “You are free to use the phone in my office.”

  Who would I even ring? The last thing I wanted to do was speak to anyone with the surname Agostino. My childhood friends, Sophia and Beatrice, were both busy with their children and lives. But who else was there to call? I had no other ties to Chicago, no other people I cared about.

  “I’ll do that,” I muttered.

  Konstantin said something to Boris in Russian and the tailor adjusted some pins.

  While he was distracted, I searched his room once again. I don’t know what I was looking for, but whatever it was, I didn’t find it.

  Then under the bed, in the shadows, I spotted a familiar pair of beady green eyes.

  Fuck off, I mout
hed to Babushka.

  “Babushka does not react well to threats,” cautioned Konstantin.

  Hearing her name, the fat tabby cat stretched and slinked out from under the bed. She made her way to Konstantin.

  “For something so big, she sneaks very well,” I noted. Babushka leaped past Boris, giving him a hiss as she did, and rubbed herself against Konstantin’s legs. Boris threw his hands up in the air.

  “Ah, no, you don’t.” Konstantin scooped her up with one hand and gently moved her to the side. To me, he said, “She is very good at sneaking when she wants to be.”

  The cat perched herself on the desk, licking her paws.

  “Where did you get her?”

  “Back in Moscow,” he said. “She tried to kill one of the dogs.”

  I thought about the huge bear killers outside. “Was she successful?”

  “Not quite. She allowed Roksana to clean out her cuts and has been with us ever since. Danika believes she is our patron saint.”

  I huffed. “And Tatiana believes she is queen.”

  Konstantin laughed. The sound bounced off the walls, bright and charming.

  I crossed my arms over my chest, my heart strangely speeding up. “Do you need anything more from me?”

  “No, that is all.” His eyes danced over me, catching onto the scrawls on my forearms and hands.

  I tried to tuck them further into my chest. “Are you trying to read my words?” I demanded.

  “How else would I know what’s going on in your head?”

  Mortification flushed through me and I took a hurried step back, almost backing into the wall. Konstantin watched me with an intense expression.

  “Don’t hit—”

  “I’m not going to hit the wall,” I snapped, turning on my heel. “I have things to do. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye, Elena,” he called after me.

  Stupid fucking man! I thought as I stormed down the hallway. How dare he try and step into my brain? Try and understand what I’m thinking? What fucking business is it of his anyway–

  “Oh, shit!”

  I ran straight into someone, both of us falling to the side. I caught myself before hitting the ground, but the other person fell with a splat, telling me who it was before I even registered her.

  “Danika?” I looked down. “Are you okay?”